


A Bomb in the Hall of Records

by KnightNight7203



Category: Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman
Genre: F/F, I wouldn't know I never finished it, Is that in the book?, or not so lowkey, some kind of AU where Elphaba is lowkey a terrorist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightNight7203/pseuds/KnightNight7203
Summary: For weeks now—as the Animal forces move in, as strategic points around the city are hit—Morrible has been getting shorter and shorter with her, keeping her less and less informed and watching her more closely. But the most wonderful thing about being entirely superficial is that it’s all too easy for others to see when you have absolutely nothing to hide.In which Glinda survives an attack on the Emerald City—but does it count as surviving if you were never in danger to begin with?
Relationships: Elphaba Thropp/Galinda Upland
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that interview for Killing Eve where Phoebe Waller-Bridge says that every moment exists to get Eve and Villanelle in a room together? This is that.

When Fiyero finds her she is the calm in the storm, the only figure standing still among the small group of people stumbling from the room behind her and the larger number of guards rushing in. Her dress is torn, her poor hair is in quite a state, and her ears are still ringing from the tiny homemade box tucked in the alcove beneath the Emerald City Charter that went _boom._

“Hey, Captain of the Guard,” she quips, voice a bit weaker than she intended as she slowly starts to make her way to him. “There was a bomb in the Hall of Records.”

Then she stumbles a little, takes a few baby steps across the marble floor, and collapses into his outstretched arms.

He sets her down on the floor behind a pillar, where she won’t be stepped on in the chaos—or discovered by one of the interns that always seems to need her attention regarding this event or that dinner. She leans against the obscured wall gratefully. Then he takes a step back to give her the space to breathe—he’s incredibly thoughtful that way, and she appreciates it dearly.

So she breathes, and as she breathes, she thinks: There was a bomb in the Hall of Records.

She has to admit, she’s wondered about bombs—hard not to, really, with all of the current events going on across the city. Maybe—in daydreams, perhaps—she’d even fancied herself capable of facing one down. But the reality turned out to be something else entirely, and from the way the room is still spinning and little spots are appearing at the corners of her vision, there are certain elements to personally experiencing close proximity with detonating explosives that she never really stopped to consider up until now.

“It was so _loud_ ,” she whispers, and Fiyero crouches down so he can hear her more clearly. “I never thought about how loud it would be.”

“Well, it’s not your job to think about bombs, now is it?” he says softly. Then he blinks, guilty. He doesn’t want to leave her. “Speaking of which—“

“Go,” she tells him, mustering enough energy for a small grin. “I promise I’ll be here when you get back.”

There’s soot in her eyelashes when she blinks, so she blinks again to shake it loose, and the papers still clenched in her fists are burned around the edges from the blast. She smooths them out. It’s mundane stuff—lists of vendors from past years of an annual fair, hourly rates for entertainment, that sort of thing. The only reason they were in the Hall of Records at all was because the Master of Ceremonies wanted the clutter out of his office.

What a coincidence her presence was, that’s what people will say. To think, almost getting killed over something as silly as a festival—she imagines this will do wonders for her image, the public perception of both her ditziness and her resilience. The traits don’t necessarily go hand in hand, but they both serve her well—usually no one is too focused on her day-to-day happenings, which is how she likes it, but they still view her as formidable in her own right, and know she’s capable of getting things done.

“Glinda?”

Oh. Fiyero is back already. But—from his position on the floor in front of her and the worried expression on his face, she imagines that he’s been there for some time.

Did she hit her head, perhaps?

No. She’s fine. She’s always fine.

“Did you find out what happened?” she asks him, focusing her eyes on his face with no small effort. Fiyero sighs, passes a hand over his mouth.

“We found the body of an Animal close to where the the thing went off,” he says. “Small, dark fur, probably some kind of Dog. Now, he’s obviously not going to tell us any information, but with the way things are right now, he’s a pretty solid suspect.”

“I think I saw him,” she murmurs. “He wore a cloak, carried a box—that must be how he got in. Everything suspicious was covered.”

Fiyero nods. “It’ll probably take some time to determine exactly where he entered the castle, but I’m sure somebody noticed something. We’ll work it out soon enough.”

“To think that I saw him,” she whispers.

“Where were you?” he asks. She thinks back.

“The other side of the room. Around the corner, almost. I could barely make out what happened, and then—the smoke—”

She trails off, remembering the choking black cloud. She can smell it still—the foul odor hasn’t entirely dissipated, even in this spacious hallway.

He squeezes her hand gently. “You were almost completely outside the range,” he says softly. “We’re so lucky the bomb was a small one.” And Glinda finds that she desperately wants to laugh at that, but she holds it in, keeps her lips pressed together.

_As if luck had anything to do with it._

“We should go,” she says instead. “I think—I think I’d like to lie down for a while.”

She stands stiffly, hand pressed to her stomach. “Are you hurt?” Fiyero asks quickly, applying a steadying fingertip at her elbow. “I never even—do you want me to take a look? Or walk you to the infirmary?”

She waves his touch away. “It’s nothing, dear,” she assures him with a light laugh. “When I tied my corset this morning, I just wasn’t accounting for the smoke inhalation—that’s all.”  
  


* * *

When they return to their chambers, their things on the desk and atop the dressers are just slightly out of place, and one of the youngest guards, Sebastian, is waiting for them with an apologetic smile. His shoes shine and his white gloves are clean; he didn’t even report to the site of the explosion, but came straight here instead.

“Madame Morrible wants to see you,” he says to Glinda. His tone is soft, and his eyes shift nervously to Fiyero, but the request is firm. It’s fine, though—from the moment she saw the state of things here, she was never really under the impression that she’d have much of a choice.

Fiyero opens his mouth angrily, but Glinda squeezes his forearm and his protests die on his lips. “Of course,” she says with a smile—not too bright, given what just happened, but bubbly enough to convince him she’s acting like herself.

She walks stiffly down the hall after Sebastian, forcing her tired muscles into keeping up with his hurried pace. He turns back to look after her once, but not again—she’s not surprised, though, as he obviously fears Morrible far more than herself. No one has been afraid of her in a long, long time. Morrible, on the other hand—there are rumors that some of the kitchen ladies worked themselves into seizures at the thought that she might pay them a visit after a burned cake found its way into a state dinner.

The Press Secretary is sitting behind her desk when Sebastian shows Glinda inside, stacks of paperwork spread out across a map in front of her. Glinda’s been working on her geography lately, in a rather unofficial capacity, and when she glances at the map she can see markings over the sites of the last five attacks—two migrant camps just outside the city, the local courthouse, a rundown tavern in Munchkinland, and a small chapel on the border of Quadling Country. They’re all places where Animals have been ambushed or held in over the past month.

She’s not sure if Morrible is too idiotic or too stubborn to work out this rather obvious pattern, but based on the scribbles she’s left in the margins, the woman is currently working a theory involving Ley lines and lightning strikes. If Glinda was so inclined, she could point out the next four likely targets in a heartbeat. Instead, she allows herself a small smile.

Glinda coughs lightly, and Morrible raises an eyebrow when she lifts her eyes to greet her. For a second she’s almost offended by the disdain—but, admittedly, she is likely still in complete disarray. In fact, if the smoky smell rising off her poor dress is any indication, she must look positively ghastly.

“Why, Miss Glinda,” Morrible simpers. “I didn’t realize you were present during the attack.”

“I was, Madame.” _And what of it?_

Morrible taps the desk with one long, sharp fingernail. “Perhaps you can be even more helpful than anticipated, then.”

Glinda smiles tiredly at her.

“I certainly hope so.”

Morrible pushes herself to her feet and walks around her desk to stand before her. Glinda isn’t in the habit of feeling small—she may be short in stature, but her high spirits and even higher heels always seem to make up for that somehow. Still, she feels positively dwarfed now. Morrible looks down at her, and she thinks nervously of how a spider might study a fly caught in its web.

“Our current theory is that some old spells were taken from their secure place in the Hall. Very dangerous spells, ones that are banned from even being read.” Morrible pauses to stare Glinda down, giving her a once-over that turns her blood to cold lead. “What exactly were you doing there?”

“Festival planning, Madame.” Luckily, Glinda still has her papers in hand, and she passes the crumbling things to Morrible with an apologetic wince. “I wanted to start reaching out to contacts before they all commit to the regional fairs. It’s an anniversary year, after all.”

“But of course.” Morrible spares a quick glance through the papers, then sets them behind her among her many stacks. Her pale eyes don’t waver in their stare, not even to blink. “Well, I thought—if you saw something, or perhaps picked a scrap of paper up off the ground in the aftermath—“

It’s an unseasonably warm day for early spring, enough that Glinda’s dress features the latest short-sleeved fashion, but in that moment goosebumps dance up and down her bare arms. She glances toward the window, almost certain she’ll see frost curling across the pane in the sudden burst of cold.

_If I admit to having even caught a glimpse of those spells you’ll just have an excuse to lock me up,_ Glinda thinks suddenly, although she has to admit she’s not entirely sure this wild assumption is true. Still, for weeks now—as the Animal forces move in, as strategic points around the city are hit—Morrible has been getting shorter and shorter with her, keeping her less and less informed and watching her more closely. She’s not sure what the old bat is looking for exactly—letters to the Resistance in elegant pink hand, perhaps, or a secret tunnel she’s carpeted in silk to funnel Animals from the dungeon to the river? There has never been any evidence that Glinda Upland has done a single thing wrong, and if her life carries on the way she wants it to, there never will be.

Either way, though, the path ahead is simple—smile, nod, play the game. The most wonderful thing about being entirely superficial is that it’s all too easy for others to see when you have absolutely nothing to hide.

“I did see something, actually,” Glinda says seriously, leaning in as much as she dares. “I think—I’m not positive, but I think I saw the bomber.”

She pauses for dramatic effect, but Morrible only seems mildly intrigued. If things weren’t so somber these days, and today especially, Glinda would probably pout. She restrains herself, and yet still imagines that the air cools perhaps another degree.

“It—it was an Animal,” she continues, a little less confident now. “Rather short, dark fur, some kind of snout. I thought—perhaps a Dog? A Wolf? But I only really saw him from the back, and—“

“We are well aware of this.” Morrible’s voice is dry. “A body was recovered from the room—it perished in the blast.”

Glinda nods, bites her lip. “Well, I didn’t see him try to take anything. The only thing he carried was his box—with the explosives, I assume. There didn’t seem to be anyone with him.”She lets out a nervous giggle. “And I’m not in possession of any spells I wasn’t yesterday—certainly not ancient, forbidden ones.”

To prove it, she holds out her arms—empty, of course—and flourishes them before Morrible just a little dramatically. Morrible sighs and waves the display away, returning to her perch behind her desk. She places her fingertips on her temples and rubs lightly—suddenly, she seems much older than she had a moment before, and so very tired.

“You understand why I had to ask, of course? As my only pupil of magic in this entire city, I must perform my due diligence. It’s what people expect from me.”

That doesn’t explain the search of her room, or the general inclination to treat her like a criminal, but Glinda smiles and nods anyway. “Of course, Madame.”

Morrible looks her over one last time, then turns back to her maps with a pained grimace.

“That will be all, dear. But I am looking forward to our lesson Friday evening.”

“I am as well,” Glinda says, inclining her head slightly and turning to go. She’s almost to the door before Morrible stops her.

“Glinda?”

She freezes. “Yes?”

Morrible waves something at her, and with a jolt, Glinda realizes she’s left behind the papers for the festival. She reaches for them quickly, muttering excuses about _frazzled wits_ and _overwhelming responsibilities_ and _gosh, what a day it’s been._

When Glinda steps into the hallway, papers once more in hand, it’s like walking through a blast of warm air. She rubs her arms as she walks, determined to put as much distance between herself and Morrible’s office as possible.  
  


* * *

“What do you think Elphaba is doing right now?” Glinda asks softly that night, when she and Fiyero lay beside each other in a bed far too big and soft for any real comfort. This is how it goes: one of them asks the question, and the other pretends to be shocked, intrigued, maybe a little offended. Tonight she’ll take one for the team; all things considered, it might as well be her.

The corners of Fiyero’s mouth tighten—almost imperceptibly, but they know each other well now. Elphaba is not just a polarizing subject these days, but a dangerous one.

“Hopefully, plotting an attack a little further from where you’re likely to be,” he says. His belief in her good luck from earlier seems to have run its course. He’d had no luck throughout the day in tracking the movements of the bomber through the castle, and though he might not be as opposed to Elphaba’s overall goals as his position demands, the thought that his home can be breached so easily and with so little regard for innocent lives does not seem to be sitting well at this point in time.

Funnily enough, Glinda is experiencing many of the same feelings.

“So you think she’s behind this?” The whispers throughout the day had suggested as much, but it would be inappropriate for the Captain of the Guard to jump to conclusions without evidence.

Now he’s just Fiyero, though, and he can speculate to his heart’s content. He shrugs dully. “Who else?”

“Oh, you know,” Glinda says. But she can’t really think of anyone.

Outside, the first birds of spring chirp in the night—they’d left a window open despite the chill on the horizon to celebrate the melting snow and brightening sun. But the wind blows loudly, too, howling through the turrets and rising like a scream into the sky. Glinda shivers.

“I hope she’s doing well,” Fiyero says after a while, because they do try to put good thoughts out into the world. “Hope she found somewhere dry to sleep.”

“I hope she had a full meal,” Glinda adds.

“Hope she still has all her limbs—“ He breaks off when Glinda slaps at him, torn between laughing and choking out a sob. “Fine. But I do hope she’s found people who respect her. I know she has followers—that’s not what I mean. I mean people she can talk to. People who will tell her when she’s wrong.”

“Like you,” Glinda says. Her voice softens. “Like me.”

He nods.

“So tell me, then—“ He pauses, raising his head to look her in the eye. If she didn’t know better, she might say there’s a hint of apprehension there. “Do you know what Elphaba’s doing right now?”

“Why would I know something you don’t, silly?” she asks, lightly tapping a finger to his nose before rolling away.

Beside her, she hears Fiyero flop back onto the mattress. Then he mumbles something into his pillow.

“What was that?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” But she heard the words the first time, heard him say: _Because you’re the one who loves her most of all._

“I don’t, though,” she says softly. Then she clarifies: “I don’t know what she’s doing.”

And—like always—Glinda isn’t lying. She doesn’t know what Elphaba is doing right this very second.

But she does know where she’s going to be at midnight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this 4k-word argument that I made up in the shower.

Glinda is halfway out of her clothes when Elphaba appears in the old watchtower. She doesn’t arrive by broom, not this time—this far into her reign of terror, the guards know all too well to monitor the skies. Instead, she ducks through the largest intact section of a broken full-length mirror.

Glinda thinks of several things she could say: _You’re late_ , perhaps, or, _That’s a spell you haven’t taught me._ Maybe even: _I’ve missed you._

“Help me with this,” is what she chooses instead, gesturing to her corset.

Elphaba grimaces—at Glinda’s frustrating dependency, maybe, or perhaps the idea of prolonged physical contact—but steps behind her anyway. Glinda has to fight the urge to shiver when bony fingers brush her spine.

She expects her to make quick work of the knots and laces; in her mind, Elphaba is incredibly smooth, and more than competent at pretty much everything she attempts. But the real Elphaba is short-tempered and impatient, and has likely never worn a corset herself in all her life. She fumbles for several minutes before Glinda hears the telltale click of a pocketknife.

“Absolutely not,” she snaps, stepping quickly out of reach. “You may _not_ ruin my clothes.”

Elphaba gestures helplessly. “The strings are already all frayed and—charred? I can’t—“

Glinda waves away her excuses—and the knife—with a stiff hand. “Then I’ll just do it myself.”

This isn’t a big deal; it’s truly not. Glinda knows how to work her own corset, and she and Elphaba have such little time together—she has mysteries to decipher, goals to achieve, confessions to get off her chest. But suddenly she’s tense, mind roiling. It’s hard to keep her fingers from shaking as she pulls first at one knot, then the next.

Of _course_ her corset is damaged. She was in a dangerous explosion this morning—an explosion Elphaba as good as sent her into, one she _planned_ , without so much as a warning—

She rips the corset away, removes a bundle of papers from the waistband of her skirt, and slaps them to Elphaba’s chest. Elphaba blinks briefly, thrown off by Glinda’s sudden shift in mood, and then adjusts her hold on the stack and dives in without a second thought.

Not particularly happy about being ignored in the best of times, Glinda seethes.

“Do you know _why_ my clothes are charred, Elphaba?” she asks, voice tinged with venom. She’s barely dressed, and they’re on a strict schedule, but in this moment the only thing in the world she wants to do is stand here and tell this infuriating woman off. “Would you like to? It’s because you decided to change the plan and send in a bomb that I knew nothing about.”

Nose still buried in the papers, Elphaba looks up long enough to roll her eyes. It’s a move Glinda remembers all too well, and it feels all the more patronizing now that they’re adults—now that she finally, after years of reflection, considers herself Elphaba’s equal.

“Just because you don’t know everything about the plan doesn’t mean it changed,” Elphaba says. “It’s not my fault you’re used to being spoon-fed whatever information your pretty little head thinks it needs.”

_Spoon-fed?_

Glinda almost shrieks. She has never been spoon-fed in her life—she’s worked hard to get where she is, harder than most, and she risks more every day than just about anyone she can think of in the world.

“Do not speak to me like I’m crazy—like I’m _entitled_ ,” Glinda snaps. “You’re the one who expects people to be fine with getting blown up just because you say so—really, I think that makes _you_ both of those things.”

“Glinda, you weren’t blown up.” Elphaba’s jaw is tight, and Glinda can feel another barely-suppressed eye roll hovering on the periphery.

“But I could have been,“ Glinda says. Now that she’s really thinking about it, there are so many ways Elphaba’s secrecy could have backfired: she could have been knocked out and stripped of her corset in the infirmary, she could have been questioned and caught in the ensuing investigation, the papers could have _burned_ in the blast _—_

“Do you know what this is, Glinda?” Elphaba asks shortly, interrupting her thoughts. She holds up the bundle.

Of course she does. She’s the one that stole it, after all. She had to comb through hundreds of files to do so, over the course of six agonizing hours of the sharpest vigilance—always looking over her shoulder, always straining her ears, sliding a single sheet at a time down her front every time the others milling about the Hall were out of sight—

“It’s a list of Animals,” she replies, far more patiently than Elphaba deserves. Elphaba continues looking at her expectantly, so she goes on. “That you want to contact. Or—or, something.” That last bit is just a mumble—now, more than ever, it’s difficult for her to admit not knowing something to Elphaba.

The witch in question shakes her head impatiently. “It’s the record the government uses to go out and _find_ the Animals,” she corrects. “ It’s how they round them up and cart them off to be silenced, tortured, and killed. It’s how they found a family of Wrens and boiled them over hot coals around the first snow, how they tracked down the Mouse operatives running the Vinkus route, how they target churches, offices, _children’s schools_ —“

She takes a deep breath, one she definitely needed, before going on a slightly softer volume. “Now, I’m not naive enough to think it’s the only copy of the list—they’ll have one backup at least, maybe several. But because of the explosion, because so many files were damaged, they won’t know what’s been taken and they won’t know to fetch those backups right away. _Any_ time we win equals lives saved. That’s who knows how many Animals we can move past roadblocks and borders without Guards being on alert for them.”

Glinda draws herself up to her full height—not much, especially considering the tiny flats on her feet tonight, but it’s something at least—and crosses her arms. “I _understand_ that, Elphaba. I’m not an idiot. I’m just upset you didn’t _tell me_ you were going to blow everything up so that I could be prepared.”

Elphaba snorts. “Calm down, Glinda. I just didn’t want you to give something away.”

It takes everything Glinda has to resist the urge to slap her. She takes one deep breath, then another. Across from her, Elphaba finishes skimming the papers and tucks them into a bag hanging at her side. When Glinda sees her eyeing up the mirror she steps in front of it—she’s obviously not kept in the loop in this operation, so she could be stopping Elphaba from rescuing a flaming boat filled with helpless infants or summoning the Unnamed God himself for all she knows, but she’s not ready to let her go, dammit.

Elphaba raises an eyebrow, but Glinda shakes her head.

“You don’t trust me?” she asks, softly.

Elphaba throws her arms out in exasperation. “Well, you’re not exactly the most subtle person I know.”

There are a few things Glinda could say to that, of course. She could, for example, bring up one of the many times Elphaba’s personal thoughts and feelings have made her a target for the opposition—when she took to the sky after a slight disagreement to become a chaos-wreaking fugitive, for example. Glinda has never had the luxury of being anything but demure in public, following strict social codes Elphaba never even bothered to learn and keeping more secrets about her thoughts—and her activities—over her entire life than Elphaba has ever managed in even a single conversation.

But Elphaba doesn’t respond to personal criticism well, and Glinda knows she’s the stronger of the two, and could easily push her way through to the mirror if she really gets it in her head to leave. So she won’t criticize—but she can’t bring herself to stop questioning, yet, either. The day has left her too raw, too uncertain. She needs to know where things stand.

She casts her mind around for another argument, a subtler one. “What about the poor Animal who died planting the bomb?” she asks finally. He’d been on her mind all day—what he’d been thinking, what he’d hoped for, how things had gone awry in such a way that the outcome was his untimely demise. “Did he know the risks? Did you warn _him_?”

There’s a horrible pause, and suddenly Glinda wishes she could take the question back, because she knows what answer is coming.

“His death was… that _was_ the plan,” Elphaba finally says quietly. Glinda’s heart plummets towards the ground. “It was the only way to be sure he wouldn’t crack under questioning.”

Glinda stares at her, eyes wide. Elphaba doesn’t have the grace to look ashamed—not exactly—but there is a furrow in her brow that wasn’t there when she was insulting Glinda’s ability to blend into a crowd.

If Glinda stopped to think about it—if she really applied what she knows about the world, about the Animals and the Resistance and Elphaba—she probably wouldn’t be all that shocked by this revelation. A part of her has to admit that it makes complete sense. That doesn’t sound like the kind of person she wants to become, though, so she brushes it aside.

“The _plan?”_ she says weakly, unable to picture the kind of person who could walk into a room knowing they won’t walk out—who would give up literally everything on the off chance that it might make a difference somewhere down the road.

Then the image of someone green pops into her head, and that just makes her feel worse. But Elphaba wouldn’t—would she?

Glinda blinks the image away.

“Don’t act so surprised,” Elphaba is saying, and her tone is sharp, though she won’t quite meet Glinda’s eye. “It’s war—people die. He had the good fortune of being able to say goodbye to his family before it happened.”

“That’s—that’s _appalling_ , Elphaba.”

“That’s life,” she snaps.

“And what if _I_ had died?”

“But you were never in danger,” Elphaba says confidently, face a little brighter now. “Your safety was part of the mission.”

Glinda shakes her head. “But you couldn’t know for sure. You weren’t there.”

That, at least, silences Elphaba for a moment. She turns away, walks over toward the window facing the west and gazes out into the night. After a beat she grimaces, and Glinda can only imagine what she sees: Guards marching up and down the battlements, scouting out additional attacks? Animal skeletons beyond the gates, those who starved in forced silence and unsurmountable poverty, abandoned to rot where they collapsed and died?

When she first moved to the city, after Shiz, Glinda used to go for walks through the gardens every afternoon—sometimes with Fiyero, sometimes alone, and even, on occasion, with the Wizard. Now, she can’t even bear to step outside because of the horrible smell.

Finally Elphaba faces her once more, and though her expression is steely, there’s a hint of regret in her eyes. “What do you want me to say, Glinda? That I’m sorry?”

But Glinda shakes her head.

“You can’t just say the words, Elphaba. You have to mean it. A real apology suggests that you intend for your behavior to change.”

Elphaba scoffs. “Well I _can’t_ change my behavior. This is all too important.”

Glinda scoffs right back. “You wouldn’t want to, anyway.” She wets her lips, then continues. “You love this too much.”

In the pause that follows, the air almost crackles. Glinda forgets, sometimes, the power in Elphaba—forgets that not all magic is like hers, structured and balanced and used to create things and stabilize them and bring them into harmony. When Elphaba is angry—truly angry, like she is now—tendrils of darkness writhe around her, and things tend to fall over or shatter in the periphery, if not worse. It’s a little like Morrible’s weather magic, even though it’s not, really—but it comes on just as quickly, and it’s equally impossible to defend against.

Elphaba steps into her personal space, and the hairs on her arms stand straight on end.

“Love what, exactly?” she asks in a soft, dangerous voice. “Love living in caves, completely devoid of sunlight? Love eating beetles when we can’t risk being seen scavenging for meals in the trash behind an inn? Love never knowing someone for more than a few months, sending people I’ve begun to trust away, because every time I let myself get close to someone, they die?”

It’s so sad to hear her spell out her life in this way—of course it is, her heart is breaking—but Glinda refuses to be distracted. There’s no way Elphaba will stay with her now, so she might as well say her piece and be done with it.

“No,” she hisses, “you love that now you’re every inch the victim you always made yourself out to be. You’re basically always one bad decision away from full martyrdom, and that’s like a dream for you.”

Elphaba lets out a cackle that echoes far beyond what a normal voice should be capable of—and they should really be quiet, but the risk of being caught seems so far away here. “I never _played_ the victim,” she says. “I spent my whole life mocked, targeted, forced to stay on the outside by people who were supposed to care about me—“

“And you’re living quite the revenge fantasy now, aren’t you?” Glinda shoots right back. “All those people who ever doubted you, everyone who thought you were nothing more than the color of your skin—well they all get a front-row seat to your great and terrible power now—”

“This is a war, Glinda, not a theater.” A horrible sneer twists Elphaba’s pointy face. “I wouldn’t expect a spoiled little princess like you to understand.”

More shadows gather in the corners, and something in the foundation of the stone beneath them grinds together with a whine. But when the tension explodes—when the magic in the room bursts free with a bright flash and the sharp smell of sulfur—it’s Elphaba who lays on her back in a pile of crumbling mortar, Glinda standing over her in silent shock, instead of the other way around.

Elphaba takes one look at Glinda’s face—stark white, presumably, and painted with genuine horror—and bursts out laughing.

“Well, I didn’t know you had that in you,” she chuckles as Glinda offers her a shaking hand. She takes it, pulling herself to her feet and brushing off her dark dress.

“I am _so_ sorry—“

“It’s nothing.” Elphaba waves her apology away. “We shouldn’t—We haven’t seen each other in months, and here we are at each others’ throats like schoolgirls.”

“I’ve missed you,” Glinda says, which, admittedly, was what she should have started with the second Elphaba crawled from the mirror. She lets Elphaba pull her into a crushing hug, resting her head on her thin shoulder.

“I’ve missed you too.”

It’s long after one by now. There are a million things that could be going wrong as they stand here together—Fiyero could be waking up alone in Glinda’s chambers, a guard could have seen the light or heard the noise from the tower, Morrible could have tried to scry one of them, a disaster could befall the Resistance in Elphaba’s absence. But Glinda was blown up today, questioned, picked apart, and placed under unimaginable stress. She needs this: Elphaba’s heart beating against hers, her hair tickling her nose, her feet twitching in the dust, because Elphaba is always moving, always analyzing, planning.

She needs … something.

“I just can’t keep doing this,” she whispers finally, in a voice so soft she’s not sure Elphaba can even hear her. “I need more.”

“More what?” Elphaba asks, pulling away and studying her seriously. “Money? A cut of the funds we’re moving, the relief? We don’t have much, but I can try …”

Ice coils in her stomach at the idea that Elphaba thinks she’d be motivated by something as superficial as wealth. “Don’t be stupid. They go through my finances with a fine-toothed comb—I can’t so much as collect the wrong change from the marketplace without being dragged to Morrible’s office and questioned about it.”

Elphaba’s hands remain on Glinda’s shoulders, cold and heavy, as her face twists up at that new bit of information. “I didn’t realize—“

“Didn’t realize what?” Glinda says tiredly. “That this isn’t a fairytale castle? You didn’t think they were worried their token witch might dream of being more than just a puppet?” She sighs and wriggles free, uncomfortable with Elphaba’s touch and her piercing gaze. “Your massive shadow of suspicion falls quite squarely on me, Elphaba, we were best friends at school—“

“At school?” Her face falls imperceptibly—if Glinda didn’t know her so well, she never would have seen it. She decides to do her the courtesy of pretending it never happened.

“I—“ She decides on the fly to pick the easiest explanation for the distance painted by her words. “Well, we haven’t been seen together in years. For _obvious_ reasons.”

Elphaba nods seriously, face impassive once more. “So what do you need?”

But somehow, this conversation doesn’t seem like a good idea anymore.

“Never mind.” Glinda shakes her head. She feels very bare suddenly—she stoops to pick up her corset from the ground, starts lacing it over her chemise like it’s a piece of armor. “It wasn’t important.”

“Well obviously it was, if you were going to jeopardize all of this for it.” This is perhaps the most frantic Elphaba has sounded all night, and Glinda is struck by the urge to reassure her.

“All of this?” She looks up from her laces.

Elphaba nods. “You’re our only inside operative, Glin. Without you, everything falls apart.”

Of course. Glinda snorts. Her precious Resistance.

“What?”

She shakes her head, but when Elphaba takes a step toward her, the words she doesn’t mean to say startle from her throat.

“It’s just that—I can’t tell with you. I can never quite manage to pin down what this all means.”

Elphaba tilts her head. “Means?”

Glinda drops her corset laces and steps forward once more, to take Elphaba’s hands in hers.

“That’s what I want, Elphaba. I want you to promise me—I want to know that I’m not just another pawn in this epic game of chess you’ve created. Because—how many of your _soldiers_ do you lose out there a week? Do you spare them a second thought in the aftermath? Think about them before you go to sleep at night?”

Elphaba tries to laugh this off, pats her hand comfortingly before pulling away. “Of course you’re different from them, you know that.“ But Glinda shakes her head.

“I want to be sure that when they find me—and they _will_ find me, Elphaba, I know. They get closer every day. So I want to believe that when they do—when they toss my body out of a cart into a gutter, or mount my head on a pike up on the highest tower—that it was _for_ something, that it meant something to you, that—“

She shudders, seconds away from gagging. Death never used to scare her, but then, she never used to see quite so much of it on a regular basis. She doesn’t want much, not a big marble tomb or a stately funeral—but she does want a nice little grave beside her Granny. She does _not_ want to be dragged through the streets by an ankle like the tragic loser of a mythical chariot race, thank you very much.

She’s afraid of getting dust in her eyes. She’s afraid of her shoes falling off. She needs, _needs,_ to be tucked safely in the earth.

Elphaba purses her lips, presumably at the idea of Glinda dying, but chooses to brush past that gory thought. “What do you mean? You’re doing this for me?”

“Well, I’m certainly not doing it for me,” Glinda snorts. She swallows, but the nausea has mostly passed now. “I don’t want any of this.”

But Elphaba knows her too well to entirely believe that statement, and she calls her on it smugly. “I thought you were doing it because it was the right thing. Because it _matters._ ”

“But I never exactly used to care about that, did I.” It’s not a question. Glinda isn’t really in a position to draw a line between the idea of Elphaba and that of revolution, but she knows they’re entwined, and she knows that it was only a small leap from one to the next.

“So what shall I promise you?” Elphaba’s voice isn’t so pretentious now—in fact, it’s just a whisper. She focuses her eyes somewhere over Glinda’s shoulder, and Glinda can’t quite tell in the dark, but she rather thinks they might be wet. “Shall I tell you I love you?”

Glinda’s heart breaks, and she shakes her head.

“Professing feelings is rather like an apology, Elphaba. Unfortunately, you have to actually mean it.”

“ _Professing feelings_ , for fuck’s sake—“ Elphaba rolls her eyes again, and Glinda is about to slap her over it for real this time, but she finds her arms squished against her chest as Elphaba pulls her forward and brings their mouths together.

_Oh._

It’s gentler than she expected, softer somehow. It’s also less wet. Elphaba’s lips are very chapped, and she realizes with distant horror that hers are, too. But by the time she’s managed to make these deductions it’s over, so she never quite moves on to the stage where she decides whether or not she likes it.

If the weakness in her knees is anything to go by, she did.

“Glinda?” Elphaba’s voice is hoarse, and she’s definitely crying now, but Glinda does not feel capable of speech so she shakes her head. She slides to the ground, and when she touches her face, she finds her own cheeks are wet too.

Elphaba kneels in front of her, brushes her hands along her arms so gently, like she is made of porcelain. Glinda keeps shaking her head, and it’s starting to hurt now—but as soon as she notices this, Elphaba is taking her face between her palms and holding her still.

“If I can’t make a promise, then let me tell you what I know instead,” she says in a fierce whisper, moving her thumbs back and forth across cheekbones Glinda knows are far too prominent these days. “I know you are smart, far smarter than everyone else in this place, and that you have them all wrapped around your little finger.”

Glinda tries to shake her head again, crying harder, but Elphaba shushes her.

“I know that all of Oz loves you, far too much for you to disappear in the night,” she continues, smiling proudly, like the affection of a public so fickle and cruel is an accomplishment rather than a mortal sin. Then she takes a deep breath.

“Finally, I know this—I know they will never toss your body to the side of the road, or mount your head on a pike, because the second they move against you I will know, and I will raze this place to the ground.”

Glinda squeaks a little, surprise gifting her back her voice. “That’s something you can do?”

Elphaba grins sharply. “Not on my own. Not necessarily easily.”

“But you could?”

“I’m confident of it.”

Being buried in a tomb of crumbling emerald and stone isn’t quite the cozy plot next to Granny’s. But it doesn’t sound so bad, either.

Glinda reaches up to grab Elphaba’s hands, pulls them into her lap. “So why not do it now?” she asks. “They’re all here, everyone you’re fighting—Morrible, the Wizard, their followers. You could—you could end this tonight. No more battles.” She forces a weak chuckle. “No more beetles in caves.”

“It’s not so simple.” Elphaba pauses. “And, you’re here, too.”

“Take me with you?” she asks pathetically. She doesn’t mean it. She knows she can’t go. But it stings, all the same, when Elphaba shakes her head slowly.

Is this what she did to her, all those years ago?

“My sweet,” Elphaba says softly, “you’re too important here. People would miss you—Fiyero.” Her voice is firm, because she is sensible, because she knows she must stick to her elaborate, secret plans. Then she smiles. “But I wish to every god I don’t believe in that I could.”

“You should go,” Glinda murmurs then—not because her feelings are hurt, or because she’s disappointed, but because she’s starting to feel the fear return and she knows Elphaba cannot be caught. She forces herself to her feet, pulling Elphaba with her.

“I’ll see you soon,” Elphaba promises. “I know it. And in the meantime—“

“Is there something you need me to do?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Just stay safe.”

Elphaba stops when they reach the mirror. She turns back to press her lips to Glinda’s forehead—for three seconds, four, surely longer than she would have before. Then she slips through, leaving Glinda with the lingering feeling of the kiss on her skin, a chill in her bones, and the unshakeable dread that the Witch of the West was still hiding something, even now.

Even after all this.

Glinda gazes into the mirror after her, hoping desperately for the faintest flash of green. But all she sees is her own reflection. Her hair is limp, a little less blonde since trips to the salon have become a senseless frivolity. Dark circles smudge under glazed, tired eyes, lashes crusted with dried tears. There’s a small burn on her cheek where Elphaba had brushed her fingers only moments before. The clothes she’s managed to pull back on are singed and ghosted with soot.

She looks ordinary. She looks dull. She looks … well, she looks like she’s come through a war, and there’s no indication in her scared little face what side she wants to be on.

_I wouldn’t trust me either_ , she thinks glumly. She presses a hand to the shattered glass, ignoring the way the sharp edges bite into her skin.

Then she throws a sheet over the mirror and turns away.


End file.
